


The Mire

by darthmelyanna, miera



Series: stargate_ren [22]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-27
Updated: 2008-06-05
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthmelyanna/pseuds/darthmelyanna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/miera/pseuds/miera
Summary: Facing overwhelming odds, the Caldorans make their final stand.





	1. Chapter 1

The blade of the sword was broken and jagged, but he swung the weapon with both hands, bringing all the force he could into the blow against the Jaffa's back. The enemy toppled to the ground, and Nicholas staggered backwards by two steps, hands braced on his knees as he gulped down air.

The world slowly came back to him and he looked around, realizing that the noise of the fighting had faded. The Jaffa who had appeared through the early morning light had vanished again, save for their fallen comrades lying in the dirt at the feet of the militia of Sheppard.

It was over. For the moment.

The lines were reformed rapidly after the small attack. Nicholas walked among the other men, heard the accounts of the assault, ordered some to see to burying their own dead – only two, both in the first moments when the Jaffa surprised them – and then headed back towards the encampment, eyes wary for another strike as he went through the gray morning mist.

He heard Lord Mitchell before he could see him clearly. His master was speaking to someone astride a horse, and as the fog shifted Nicholas recognized the marquis. The older man saw him coming and both the lords waited expectantly as Lord Mitchell's squire joined them.

"I counted only a dozen Jaffa dead or wounded severely. Nicholas, what did you see?" Lord Mitchell asked him.

"I saw the same, my lord. Though I fear my sword was also a casualty."

Lord Mitchell looked somewhat proud of this news, while Lord John was amused. "We'll find you another blade, Master Nicholas. You'll need it soon enough."

Lord Mitchell glanced at his cousin. "You believe this was just another raid, then?"

Lord John nodded, his eyes looking towards where the Goa'uld encampment was. "They are testing our strength with these small skirmishes." In the two days since the negotiations between the king and the Goa'uld had ended, there had been a series of small outbreaks of fighting such as this. Tension in the camp was near the breaking point. Nicholas wasn't sure any man among them had truly slept in days. The battle they had so long dreaded could be upon them at any moment.

Lord John's horse side-stepped nervously, as if sensing the continued apprehension around it. The rider controlled the animal easily, not breaking his piercing stare into the mists. "When they unleash their full fury upon us, there will be no time to doubt."

* * *

King Henry splashed his face with the cold water in the basin. He needed the shock of the water after another restless night. He cataloged yet again the numbers of their troops versus those of the Goa'uld, their equipment and resources, the terrain upon which the two armies rested and the probable front of the battle. Nothing had changed since the last time he ran through these details, of course. They were still outnumbered. They still held the higher ground. They were still caught on the precipice of battle.

All that two days of waiting had gotten them was more tiredness and anxiety.

He sat to his small breakfast, and a courier appeared bearing a letter from Master Thor. The Asgard brotherhood had removed themselves well behind the Caldoran lines once the negotiations had dissolved into nothingness. The Goa'uld hopefully believed they had decamped altogether, but in reality the strange little priests were simply concealing themselves, and supplying the Caldoran army with some of their exotic tools. Henry was waiting for Lord David to come and explain to him precisely what the Asgard weapons offered to Caldora.

But the letter bore other news, which he was still pondering when John and Stephen requested entrance.

They wasted no time getting to the point. "There's been another raid, on the militia of Sheppard, your Majesty," John said, launching into a brief report.

Two men dead to a half-dozen Jaffa, no serious damage. It fit the pattern. The Goa'uld were probing the Caldoran lines and defenses looking for weak spots.

The three men stood around the center table of the tent, where a map of the battlefield was laid out. Henry listened as the others spoke quickly about the raids, the disposition of the Goa'uld, and the weather. The heat had been building for a week, and despite the frequent afternoon storms, it was not abating.

Henry stared at the map without truly seeing it, weighing, considering and feeling certainty crystallizing within him. He looked up, aware that both his highest ranking nobles were staring at him expectantly. He did not know what it was they had asked of him, but it did not matter now.

"It's time," he said, standing up straight. "We'll form battle lines today."

"You believe the full assault is imminent, sire?" Stephen asked.

"I do." Thankfully neither of them asked for his reasons, for Henry had little but a feeling to guide him. Perhaps he was not alone in that. "Our scouts report the Goa'uld appear close to giving marching orders themselves, and I do not want us caught bare-assed when they do."

They chuckled, John rubbing his chin with his hand, staring at the map. No one voiced the thought that this would be an ideal time for the promised reinforcements from the Tok'ra to appear on the horizon, but the Goa'uld would come with or without the Tok'ra. And the Caldorans would make a fight of it either way.

Instead of dwelling on this, Henry tapped the folded letter from Thor. "Greater odds than these have been overcome. And thanks to our new friends the Asgard, we may have a small advantage on our side come nightfall."

* * *

The day passed swiftly for John as he prepared both himself and his men for the fighting. The militia were not terribly well trained, although they had experienced many of the small incursions by the Goa'uld in recent days. John and Cameron had their hands full organizing and outfitting the men. John also had to gather the archers and assign tasks to the younger boys to aid both the mounted archers and the foot soldiers who could use a bow.

Within him, a tension he had not felt in a long time was growing. Since the Ori war, he had been in a number of fights and skirmishes, but this was the first great battle he had faced since being called to fight for the Ori. Memories assaulted him as he paused just after midday to check his own armor. Memories of blood, of terrible fear, of things worse than death that no adolescent boy should have seen.

The loss of his brothers. His father's death was too near the surface and he pushed away the memories of his brothers and what had befallen them because of the Ori. He could not dwell on such things now.

John took a cleansing breath. This was a different war, he reminded himself. He was not fighting at the will of unseen beings who commanded others to die for their greed. This was not a battle for power or ambition but to defend the homes and loved ones who were nearby. Caldora might no longer be home for him, but this was still the land of his birth. He had accepted the mantle of Marquis of Sheppard. He would pay the price without flinching.

But before he went back out of the tent, he paused. The only thing he regretted now was Elizabeth. He wished he had written to her. During the days of waiting and the pointless negotiations with the Goa'uld he had thought of composing a letter to her, but everything had been so uncertain he had not done it. Now he had no time.

And he had no idea what he would have told her.

He pushed aside the flap of the tent and went back out into the merciless sunshine. The camp was frantic with activity and anxiety as men dashed to and fro around the tents and horses. John believed the king was right, that the Goa'uld were on the point of attacking. Within hours the battle would begin. And though John still believed they were coming, the Tok'ra had not arrived in time, as he and Cameron had feared.

John had faced hopeless odds before, and resolve flooded him. The Caldorans were outnumbered and would be overwhelmed, but if the Goa'uld thought to simply swallow up the smaller force, they were in for a surprise. The Caldorans would make them choke on their meal with everything they had. That was his purpose now, to rally his men to make this final stand worth remembering.

He allowed himself one last thought of Elizabeth. Strangely the image that sprang to his mind was not of her standing the in stable, but in her audience room, the day she told him of the invasion. He remembered the paleness of her face and the way her arms had wrapped around him in comfort. He ached with the wish that he could hold her like that just once more before death found him.

He wished her happy. She would be taken care of, the rest of her court would see to that, he was sure. He hoped, selfishly, that she would mourn him at least for a short time. But she would recover her spirits, devote herself to her duties, her people and her country.

He could do no less than follow her example.

Steadying his sword, he went forth to find his cousin, determination radiating from his face.

* * *

The haze of the late afternoon heat distorted everything as Stephen Caldwell returned to the king's tent. He had spent the day overseeing the preparations on the king's orders. In the distance still were sounds of armor clanking, officers barking orders and trumpets signaling commands as the Caldorans marshaled themselves into the lines. But Stephen first needed to see the king, as there was one final skirmish to be fought before the battle began.

"My lord," he said once he had been admitted to the king's presence, "you cannot come to the battlefield with us."

Henry turned to look at him, his expression growing steely. "You, my lord duke," he replied, "are not in a position to dictate such things to me."

"It was one thing for you to fight alongside us before," Stephen continued carefully. "But now the lords of the Goa'uld know your face. If you are seen on the field the dogs will swarm upon you, and you are the one person we cannot afford to lose."

There was brief pause. "Stephen, this is our last stand," Henry said quietly. "You know this as well as I do. What good is there in having a king if the kingdom is lost?"

"I do not know anything with such certainty, Henry," Stephen replied, trying to remind him that he was not simply a nobleman in his service. They had served in the military together as young men, had survived the same battles, had settled into their country as leaders. They had never been good friends, but they had a history together. "Suppose we win somehow and drive them out. If you were to fall in battle, the country would still be vulnerable, for the assembly would have to choose another king to replace you. Do you truly think the nation could withstand that?"

Henry said nothing at first, only picking up his sword from the chair it lay upon. "It is wrong," he said quietly, running his hand over the hilt of the sword. "It is wrong for me to stay behind where it is safe and let others fight where I will not."

"Yes," Stephen said. That surprised the king and made him look up. "But for the good of the country, it is what you must do." He could well understand Henry's feelings, though. He could never bear to order another man to fight in his stead. The worst battle would be easier to face.

For a long time the two men stood in silence, staring at each other. Then Henry set his sword down and asked with a slight grin, "Do you still wish you were king, Stephen?"

To his own surprise, Stephen laughed. "No, my lord, I do not. I am happy to leave those privileges entirely to you."

Henry smiled somewhat ruefully. He clapped a hand on Stephen's shoulder. "May the ancestors be with you, Stephen."

"And with you, Majesty."

* * *

Cameron forced himself to eat a dry biscuit and drink some tea as evening began to fall. His stomach was churning unpleasantly over what might very well be his last meal, but growing lightheaded from hunger would help no one and his own men needed the example. John sat by him as they more picked at their food than ate. John was preoccupied, eyes darting restlessly around the camp at the men preparing themselves and the horses shifting nervously as they caught the scent of fear and excitement mingling in the humid air.

The sun was sinking rapidly, engulfing the entire camp in orange and red light that seemed to Cameron an ominous portent. He did not feel alone in the sentiment. Although the announcement to form ranks earlier in the day had shaken the men out of their stupor of anxiety, now he could practically feel resignation creeping through the tents.

They were outnumbered. Their supplies were limited. They had no advantage of surprise or strategy this time. They would simply stand and face whatever onslaught the Goa'uld had prepared.

His hands trembled slightly as he donned his own light armor and strapped on his sword. He could not wrap his mind around his own conviction that his life was very likely to end this night.

John's hand covered his own on the hilt of his sword. Cameron looked up in surprise.

His cousin was calm, or at least calmer than Cameron felt. And he seemed well aware of the fear that was squirming inside of Cameron like a demon in his belly.

"Cousin, there is only one thing that is ever certain on the eve of a battle," John told him.

"What?"

He couldn't believe it, but John grinned, almost devilishly. "That nothing is certain until we are dead."

Cameron laughed. It was strange to laugh when he was practically staring death in the face, but in that moment, everything about them was so absurd, there was nothing else to do.

John embraced him, and Cameron allowed himself a moment to cling to his only remaining family. Much as he had before their attack on the Goa'uld some weeks ago, John cupped the back of Cameron's head for a moment before letting go. "Do not forget, Cameron," he said with another smile as he moved away.

"Breathe?" Cameron queried, eyebrow raised.

John nodded. "I will see you after."

Cameron could never have explained how it was that a lone man's conviction could be contagious, but he felt himself steadier as he turned away from John's retreating figure to find Nicholas and his horse. Now he just needed to figure out how to transmit that calm to his men. But a cry in the distance stopped him in his tracks. Whirling around, he saw John staring, alert, into the gathering darkness of the evening.

A messenger on horseback rushed up to John as Cameron began to race back to his cousin's side. He was near enough to hear the man blurt out, "My lord! It is the Tok'ra! The Tok'ra have come!"

* * *

By the time the Tok'ra actually reached the camp, the sun had completely set in the west. Torches were being lit everywhere, for while the moon was full, a thin skin of clouds covered it. Everything was so busy that hardly anyone noticed as the king and Caldwell and John made their way through the camp to meet the newcomers.

The men were uniformed, already wearing light armor, and John was relieved to see a large number of archers in their midst. Their commander did not appear to be very old, perhaps John's age, and his thick brown hair was matted down by sweat. "Could this country be any hotter?" he said crossly, glaring at the three Caldorans as though it were their fault.

"It will be," the king said. "We've only just passed midsummer."

Caldwell cast an amused look in John's direction and then turned his attention back to the young Tok'ra. "Sir, this is King Henry," he said. "I am Stephen, Duke of Icaria, and this is John, Marquis of Sheppard. I believe you have business with yonder Goa'uld."

The Tok'ra looked surprised as he realized who was addressing him, but he bowed quickly. "I am Malek, dispatched by the high council to aid you. It seems I have arrived just in time."

"Indeed," John said.

There was a call from somewhere in the camp, and the king and Caldwell both looked away. "John," said Landry, "see that Malek's men get water, and that they are ready for battle as soon as possible."

The two older men left to see to other things. John told Malek that the nearest creek ran just south of their position, and when Malek had given orders to his officers, he asked to speak with John.

They walked along between the two armies, and Malek asked, "When does King Henry intend to strike?"

"Tonight," John replied. "If the Goa'uld do not attack us first."

"You were fortunate to get this high ground," Malek commented.

"That is one way of putting it," John remarked dryly. "The Goa'uld chose their ground first."

Malek frowned, but did not press the issue. "I have another concern which I believe you will be uniquely capable of answering," he said, glancing at John's sword. "You are a marquis in Caldora and a knight in Atalan. I will not ask how that came to be, but answer me this: when were you last in the court of Atlantis?"

A thousand reasons for the Tok'ra to be asking this flashed through John's mind at once. He could only pray that there was nothing ill in Atlantis now. "I left early in the spring," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Malek nodded and lowered his voice. "Did Sarah Gardner arrive safely?"

John was a little taken aback by the question, and considerably relieved that he had no bad tidings of Elizabeth. "Yes, about six weeks before I left."

Relief passed over Malek's face for a moment, before he composed himself again. "Good."

Frowning, John asked, "How do you know about Lady Sarah?"

Malek glanced about and stepped closer. "I cannot tell you why I was in Goa'uld territory in the first place, but I helped the lady escape as far as the Mearali pass."

He said no more, leaving John to wonder how much was left to that story. Still, he was impressed that Malek had bothered to inquire after the woman he had led as far as Atalan.

"Now," Malek said, speaking louder again and facing toward the Tok'ra troops, who were still milling about behind the Caldoran camp. "How can we help you?"

* * *

Due to the late arrival of the Tok'ra, the lines were not fully formed until well after the sky was completely dark. Deep-seated instinct meant that Henry would have preferred to attack while there was still light, but he fought that back. He trusted the Asgard, and according to them an advantage would come their way only after nightfall.

He had agreed with Stephen that he needed to stay out of this battle. He had to consider more than just the outcome of this single battle, but rather the war as a whole and where the country would go from here. Admittedly, it seemed less of a useless gesture now that the Tok'ra had arrived. They were fewer than Henry would have liked, but he was not one to spit in an outstretched hand.

There was little movement down below, only restless men and horses shifting their weight. Beyond, the Goa'uld had lined up their Jaffa slaves in response to the Caldoran maneuvers, but Henry was puzzled. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that Henry meant to send his cavalry first into action, yet the Jaffa had not erected any kind of defenses against a cavalry charge, defenses whose value far outweighed the effort of constructing them. Henry's one reservation in charging down the hill was the prospect of finding pikes in the valley, but all reports indicated that that was not the case.

Two black destriers walked up to his position at the rear of the army. Stephen was wearing his armor and had his sword drawn already, as he would be leading the cavalry. Henry's fingers twitched on the hilt of his own sword, wanting to join the charge that was soon to come. On the other horse, John had a bow and quiver full of arrows on one side and his sword on the other. His horse had no reins, no bridle, no bit, and tossed his head about as he pleased. Henry had always been a little amazed at the skill of the mounted archers in Caldora, not that there were many left now. Not only were they masters at both the longbow and the much smaller bow they used when riding, they were most excellent riders, being able to direct their mounts without their hands. Due to their small numbers, John and the other Caldorans were joining the ranks of the Sodan and Tok'ra mounted archers.

"Everything is set, sire," Stephen said when they were close enough. "We're awaiting your orders."

Henry nodded and looked between the two men, then up at the sky. The clouds up above were beginning to break up, and not a moment too soon.

High above them, the moon had turned to blood.

Though he'd been warned, and had told his noblemen and officers to warn their men of what was going to happen, Henry felt his chest clench at the sight. John cursed sharply, and all over the army they could hear sounds of shock. A black shadow was eating into the moon, and the rest of the orb was a mottled red.

Sounds of panic were rising in the valley below them, and Henry tore his eyes away from the strange sight above to see the Jaffa breaking ranks, disorder brewing as they watched the fearful changes going on in the sky. Suddenly he understood why the Asgard had given him this information. His men, having known something was coming, were shaken, but not scattered.

Henry looked at John and Stephen, who were still gaping at the heavens. "Gentlemen," he said, calling their attention to himself, "begin the attack."

Without a second look at the moon or a moment of pause, they turned their horses round and galloped off to their units. John rode by the herald and shouted an instruction to him as he headed back to the archers.

The trumpet sounded, and the battle was begun.

* * *

John barely had time to address his troops – most of whom were not Caldoran but either Sodan or Tok'ra – before the signal came for the attack to begin. With a loud cry John kicked in his heels and spurred his horse down the slope.

Silvanus leapt forward without hesitation. The hill was not tremendously high but it was steep, and John and his fellow riders had to lean back as they galloped into the valley below. Shouts arose from the Goa'uld lines and Jaffa soldiers lifted their swords and mounted their horses.

In the low light, John let them continue to think that this was an ordinary cavalry charge. He waited until the infantry were clearly visible bracing themselves for the moment of impact before shouting, "Fire!"

His horse had reached the bottom of the valley, and as they rode up a slight slope, John raised his bow. His first target was only a few feet away, and John's arrow struck him in the throat.

The archers plunged into the unstable Jaffa, striking on all sides and destroying any hope of an ordered counterassault at them. Up and down the front lines, horses and riders punched through the scattered groups and infantrymen fell, almost helpless against the assault. John guided Silvanus with his knees, turning this way and that to avoid swords and axes swinging at his legs, all the while firing arrows into the mass of soldiers around him.

He had almost spent his arsenal completely when the Caldoran herald called them back. John whipped Silvanus around and rode back through the infantry. In the back of the Caldoran lines, the foot archers were opening fire, sending arrows deep into the Goa'uld ranks.

When he was well clear of the remaining infantry, he goaded Silvanus back up the hill. At the same time, he twisted around and fired his last arrow. John had the satisfaction of seeing it strike before he faced forward again, racing out of the way of the oncoming cavalry charge and heading to the rear of the lines to fill his quiver with arrows again.

* * *

Stephen had spent most of his life training as a knight. His body was accustomed to the weight of his armor, and he gripped his sword firmly as he waited astride his horse, watching the mounted archers fracture the already disturbed Goa'uld lines. It would be his turn in mere moments, and he kept his back upright, feeling and hearing more than seeing his own troops poised and ready around him.

Inside the metal skin, though, he was sweating a river. The oppressive heat was stifling without the massive weight of the armor. With it, he wondered how more of the Jaffa had not passed out already.

He pushed aside the discomfort of his soaked garments, chastising himself for his momentary lapse, as the herald blew the signal to call the first wave back. The panicked Jaffa were apparently wholly unprepared for the speed and skill of the archers. Stephen might not like John of Sheppard much, but he could give the man credit for fulfilling his purpose.

His horse shifted underneath him, restless, and he felt the same surge in his veins. It had been many years since he had faced a full-fledged battle such as this. He knew the grim cost this night would extract from them, but he could not help the way his heart began to race as his heels dug into the horse's flanks.

If this was his own end, he would not go quietly or calmly.

He bellowed without even being aware of it as he led the cavalry directly towards the thickest concentration of heavily armored Jaffa.

* * *

There was no time for fear. There was not even time to think. Nicholas was grateful for the hours of drills Lord Mitchell had insisted upon all these years, for they enabled him to enter the battle and simply allow the training to take over.

He was not conscious of how many Jaffa he faced. All sense of time seemed to disappear. He simply reacted, fighting each obstacle that came across his path. The air was full of shouts and the clanging of metal against metal. Above them, swarms of arrows blotted out the bloody moon above, their noise coming in waves.

The mounted soldiers and the infantry captains wove among the knots of fighters. Nicholas had a brief glimpse of Lord Mitchell going past him, but he was occupied with a stubborn Jaffa who resisted the heavy blows Nicholas had struck against his chest and legs and remained on his feet.

He sensed dimly that there were more Jaffa than Caldorans in the field, but the Caldorans had not been idle all these weeks. The militia of his own province surrounded him, and all of them had had ample opportunity to learn the chinks in the enemy's armor. Nicholas dodged a fierce strike aimed at his side by leaping forward instead of trying to pull back, which would have made the blow worse had it connected. Now he was slightly behind his opponent and with a swift move he swung his new sword into the back of the Jaffa's knee, where the armor gapped.

The man fell with a cry. Nicholas turned to his right and just managed to block another strike aimed at his head. He knocked the sword aside and counterattacked.

* * *

In a perverse way, Cameron was reminded of the years he'd spent shepherding flocks back home, before the news of his father's death at the hands of the Ori. He rode around and through the infantrymen, guiding them one way or the other as they clashed against the ranks of Jaffa soldiers. As he barked out orders, he wondered if the men of Sheppard made better shepherds than sheep.

Being up on his horse made him a prime target. More than once already an arrow had glanced off his armor. The initial chaos among the Jaffa had not worn off, but pockets of soldiers were becoming more organized, and Cameron had led his men straight into one such group who were resisting fiercely.

He swung his sword in a great arc, crashing the blade into Jaffa in his path. Generally he did not note if he had struck a killing blow, but knew he was incapacitating soldiers so that his own men could finish them off. Yet it seemed that no matter how many they killed, more kept pouring in, trampling over the bodies already on the field.

A trumpet sounded in the distance, and Cameron jerked on his horse's reins, turning the destrier about. Down the hill came another group of infantrymen. One of their officers rode as close to Cameron as he could. "Hail, brother!" the man called, and he realized it was Jolan of the Sodan.

Cameron raised his sword in salute before getting back into the battle. The men, seeing that help had arrived, pushed harder against the enemy, and it was not long before they had stretched this line of Jaffa thin. Just a little more and they might break through the ranks–

Just as he finished off a Jaffa soldier on his right, Cameron looked up to see a mounted Goa'uld officer on his left, a heavy flail swinging toward him. With no way to counter it, he instinctively tried to duck to the other side, but he was not able to escape entirely. The enormous spiked head struck him in the stomach, knocking him off his horse.

He hit the ground so hard his vision blurred. His horse reared up, weapons clashed above him, and a body fell atop him as everything went black.  



	2. Chapter 2

  
Stephen allowed himself a few seconds to survey the field. It did not look good. The archers were doing what they could, but the Jaffa were well-trained. The officers were regaining control of their men, regrouping and refocusing their defenses.

In the near distance, he saw the infantry of Caldora – Sheppard's men, he thought, and a few other provinces – near to being overrun. He was on the brink of sending part of the cavalry to help when the Sodan infantrymen came to their rescue.

Stephen urged his horse around, turning back to the opposing heavy cavalry. The Jaffa were falling back, not by much, but the Caldorans needed every advantage they could get. He ordered his men forward to press against the Jaffa and try to force them to retreat further.

Though the winter had been dry, the spring and early summer had been one storm after another. The valley where they fought was at times more creek than land, and in this stretch of battle the earth beneath them was mud. The horses slung the mud up on everyone, and more than once Stephen's own horse nearly lost its footing.

But the Jaffa were even less prepared for such a thing. More than once he spotted large Caldoran war horses join the fighting, rearing, biting, and even pushing at their opponents. Their horses were more sure-footed, their riders more accustomed to the terrain. There were just _so many_ of the Jaffa.

Stephen swung madly at a soldier, trying to find the gaps in his rusted armor, but finally he took his sword in both hands and brought it crashing down onto the man's helmet. He felt the vibrations all up his arms, but the other man swooned in his saddle. Stephen lunged forward, keeping his seat with his knees, and grabbed the disoriented man by the mail and dragged him from his mount. The horses, he had no doubt, would take care of him.

He looked up for his next attack, but at the outskirts of his company he saw lines of horsemen and infantry coming around on both sides. A moment too late he realized what was going on. The Jaffa had tricked them with their retreat. They were attempting to surround them and cut them off.

"To the lines!" he bellowed, hoping to pull some of his men out of the pincer before it closed around them. But it was too late for more than a handful to escape. The gap between the two sides disappeared, and the bulk of Caldora's cavalry was trapped.

* * *

  
John knew that in a battle, his sense of time became completely distorted. He had finished leading his second attack on the ranks of the Jaffa and was regrouping with his men and had no idea if a quarter of an hour, a half-hour, or an hour had passed. He had been focused on his appointed task, trusting in his fellow leaders to do their part while he did his, unable to do more than note briefly what was happening around him.

He discarded his empty quiver and looked down at the raging battle, trying to get a sense of things. The Jaffa were slowly reforming their lines into some semblance of order, he noticed, which would make them that much more difficult to deal with. The Caldorans just had to hope that what they had was enough to hold the Goa'uld from advancing.

Above the battlefield the terrible shadow over the moon was receding. Combined with the torch lights, John could just make out the colors of the various militia banners and he quickly focused in on those of Sheppard. He could just barely see the Jaffa swarming around them and flinched, immediately thinking of Cameron.

John turned Silvanus toward the Sheppard militia. His cousin needed him.

But the shouts of a herald stopped him.

"Lord John, the king commands a relief force for Lord Stephen's cavalry!"

John tore his eyes away from the Sheppard militia and sought out the cavalry. Caldwell and his men were in the middle of an enormous horde of Jaffa, completely surrounded.

Gritting his teeth, John drew his sword. Shouting for the rest of the archers to form up again, he readied himself for the third charge down the hill. He forced himself not to think too closely about the safety of his cousin.

* * *

  
Riders of the Sodan swept around Nicholas, beating back the mounted Jaffa who were inflicting the worst of the damage against the Caldoran infantry. Foot to foot, the Caldorans in their lighter armor were maneuvering far better over the muddy ground than the bulky Jaffa warriors, but the Jaffa had more horses.

He heard a threatening bellow to his left and turned, preparing himself to block whatever strike was being brought against him. But his eye caught on something as he turned.

Lord Mitchell, some distance away but still recognizable, was hit by a large warrior. He crumpled over and then disappeared into the darkness and the tangle of men and hooves knotted together where the Sodan and Jaffa had clashed.

There was no time to intervene before Lord Mitchell vanished from his sight. His immediate instinct to rush forward was thwarted by a warrior appearing before him. Great fear and a terrible anger seized Nicholas. As the Jaffa bore down on him he yelled, and as the enemy raised his sword to strike, Nicholas moved with the speed of lightning and plunged his own blade into the other man's gut where the armor gapped.

He did not wait to witness the results, just yanked the sword free and started forward again. Two more Jaffa crossed his path and were dispatched with deadly speed, but more and more of the armored men staggered into the space. Nicholas hacked this way and that at anything metal that approached him, but he could not make any progress against the swarm of Jaffa.

The Goa'uld slaves began to press the Caldoran infantry backwards. Despair began to well inside of Nicholas. Every moment that passed could mean the difference between Lord Mitchell's life or death, and in the jostling Nicholas was losing his fix on the precise spot where his master had fallen. He glanced about, wondering if there was some way to get around the Jaffa before him, and caught sight of his last hope.

The foot archers of Caldora had run out of their supply of arrows. Setting aside their bows and quivers, they had drawn swords and were pouring down the steep hillside, howling like devils.

The speed of the descent aided the onslaught. The archers crashed headlong into the feeble Jaffa ranks, breaking them once again. Nicholas seized his chance. Ducking and dodging he raced through the knots of fighting. Half-watching the chaos around him, he searched the ground for any sign of Lord Mitchell.

He found nothing.

Something brushed against his arm and he whirled, raising his weapon, only to hold off at the last moment when he recognized one of the Sodan warriors. He thought this was the man his master had spoken to so often, and he grabbed the other man's arm. "Lord Mitchell, have you seen him?"

"Yes, I know," the warrior yelled back. Nicholas' heart beat wildly for a moment. "He – down!"

The Sodan slammed a hand into Nicholas' shoulder and shoved him to the ground. His other arm brought up his weapon and swung it broadside against the neck of the attacking Jaffa. Nicholas rolled across the mud to get out of the way of the falling body and scrambled back to his feet. But there was no chance to ask further questions. A new group of Jaffa turned and bore down on them, and as he fought mindlessly, he became separated from the Sodan warrior in the melee.

* * *

  
For the third time, John led a charge down the hill. This time the archers had their swords drawn. Before nightfall there had been grass in the valley but now it was all mud. John could see the armor of the heavy cavalry glistening, surrounded by a sea of Jaffa soldiers.

The Sodan and Tok'ra riding with him were expert soldiers, well-schooled in the tactics of the Jaffa. They swarmed around the men who had cut off the Caldorans and began hacking away mercilessly. Caught up in his own bloodlust, John collected kill after kill.

As the Jaffa cavalry weakened, John could see the Caldorans fighting like fury from within the Goa'uld trap. He'd observed briefly that the enemy cavalry was a better fighting force than the infantry, but here they were attacked from two sides. John knew all too well how difficult it was to defend before and behind simultaneously, and he did not envy them.

An enormous black horse seemed to step forth from nowhere, and John swatted his visor up. His new opponent – for it was obvious that he would fight this man – did the same, and John was shocked to see Lord Ba'al himself.

"Lord Ba'al," he drawled, "I'm surprised to see you on the battlefield in person."

"I'm surprised to see you still alive, Lord John," the Goa'uld replied, his eyes flashing in the moonlight.

John lowered his visor again and adjusted his grip on his sword. A few days earlier his fellow lords had prevented him from avenging the filthy words this snake had spoken of Elizabeth, but no one would deprive him of that satisfaction now.

A predatory growl escaping his lips, John kicked his heels in, goading Silvanus to charge. He lifted his sword and swung as he came past, connecting with the steel of Ba'al's blade. Ba'al swiped low at his legs in retaliation, but Silvanus sidestepped easily out of his own sense of self-preservation. Then the horse and rider swung fluidly around and attacked again.

Ba'al was an expert swordsman, and had they been on foot John might have been in some trouble. But on horseback, it was clear that Silvanus was far more responsive and instinctive than the great beast Ba'al rode. Not having reins gave John another advantage. With both hands free, he could more frequently strike with both hands, bringing more power to the blow.

His arms were starting to get tired, however, when he struck one mighty blow, and the steel did not ring as it should have. John blinked to get the sweat out of his eyes so he could see what had happened. Ba'al still held the hilt, but a hand's breadth above it the blade had snapped.

Behind Ba'al's helmet, John thought he saw a glint of terror in the man's eyes.

Before he could move in for the kill, however, there was a great shout nearby. John looked to see that his men had broken through Ba'al's lines, and Caldwell's cavalry was starting to escape the pincer. John looked back just in time to see Ba'al, coward that he was, snap his reins, tossing down the remnant of his sword and fleeing the fight.

Caldwell was the last one out of the enclosure, and as he went past, he raised his hand to his visor in salute. "I thank you, my lord," he said.

Annoyed with himself and out of breath, John could only nod in reply.

* * *

  
Henry allowed himself the barest sigh of relief as he observed Stephen's men, by far the bulk of the Caldoran cavalry, extract itself from the Goa'uld trap with help from the Tok'ra and Sodan warriors and the added force of the mounted archers. The combination of those three powerful groups and Stephen's own men fighting from within had ruptured the strength of the Goa'uld cavalry. It was a mighty blow, and rather unexpected. The cream of the Goa'uld mounted forces was decimated down in that field, and he could hardly believe their luck.

It did not solve the problem of the Jaffa infantry, however. The Caldoran advantages of speed and mobility and the higher ground just managed to equal the advantage of numbers held by the enemy. They had more or less neutralized the Jaffa cavalry, but their infantry had restored order and were digging themselves in against the Caldoran forces.

Henry looked through the spy glass for what was surely the thousandth time since the battle began. The moon, now restored to its normal color, was close to setting, and only the torch fires lit the fields, but he had been keeping a wary eye on the rear of the Goa'uld lines all night. Out in the plains to the west, a significant force was massed. It had withdrawn during the evening, not easy to distinguish until the attack had begun and these soldiers remained back from the fighting.

He couldn't judge the distance well in the darkness, but the Goa'uld reserves seemed to be making no move to enter the fray.

What in hell were they waiting for?

Henry could think of only one reason to withhold a group of that size. At the moment the Caldoran forces were at a stalemate with the existing Jaffa on the field. Even with the cavalry now able to turn its attention to supporting the infantry, the sheer numbers on the other side meant Caldora would sacrifice many just to gain victory over this force.

If the positions were reversed, that was what Henry would allow his enemy to do. Wear themselves out, bleed their strength against the primary force, and then when victory seemed near, call in the next wave.

If those remaining Jaffa, fresh and unspoiled, were unleashed on a battered remnant of Caldora's army, all would be lost. The Caldorans needed to regroup, rearm as far as was possible, before facing that second force, and do so without expending themselves in defeating the soldiers already in the field.

Henry swallowed. There was one and only one remaining asset in his possession, something he had been determined to save until absolutely necessary. To use it now might render it valueless when that next wave of Jaffa struck, but he could see no other options.

He turned and gave the order to Lord David's men. And prayed.

* * *

  
Once the cavalry escaped Ba'al's troops, leaving the Goa'uld cavalry in shambles, there seemed to be a lull in the fighting. For a moment John considered heading toward the infantry and finding his cousin, but three of his comrades converged on his position seemingly at once. Malek of the Tok'ra trotted over from the foot archers, who were currently with the infantry. Lord Stephen was edging closer to him, and David Dixon galloped down from the hill and came to a stop at his side.

"Gentlemen?" John said to the group at large.

Dixon opened his mouth as though to say something, but it was Caldwell who spoke first. "There are still more men to the west," he said. "When we were caught in there, I got a good look beyond their lines. There's a huge force of infantry, as many as we have already met in combat, which has not yet fought tonight."

John cursed under his breath, and heard Malek do the same. "We should not have expended the archers so quickly," he said. "I do not know how we can defeat another group of this size without –"

"Archers are not everything in the world, John," Dixon told him, almost smiling. David himself was an archer.

"We could not see before, when the moon was obscured," Malek said. "We could not have known to reserve the arsenal. You led the mounted archers well."

"Yes, but..." John trailed off, looking westward.

"We've come so far," Caldwell said, his voice quiet, and he said exactly what John was thinking. "It does not seem fair that now–"

Suddenly, high on the hill behind them, there was a sound like thunder, sharp and violent and _loud_. John's horse reared, as did many around him, and it was only John's reflexes that kept Silvanus from bolting away. Then, some distance away in the Goa'uld lines, there was a tremendously loud noise he couldn't really describe, something like hot steel hitting cold water and shattering, only so much bigger than a blacksmith's mistake. Then there were men and horses screaming.

John turned about, vaguely aware of the way his heart was racing, and saw black smoke billowing up from some part of the hill behind them. It was sometime later that he realized he was looking at that smoke against the backdrop of very early dawn. They'd been fighting all night.

"What in the blazes of hell was _that_?" Caldwell demanded, as though any of them should know. Malek was cupping his ears as though in pain, and for a moment Dixon struggled to control his mount.

"That," Lord David finally said, "was a weapon fashioned by the Asgard. I came down here to warn you of it, but as usual you and Lord John were too busy talking to let me."

In unison, John and Caldwell turned to look at Dixon. Most earls would not speak thus to a marquis and a duke, but Dixon had always been something of an exception.

Then Malek got their attention. "My lords," the Tok'ra said urgently, "look."

The men looked around, at the pockets where fighting had still been going on, and where the Jaffa cavalry had been trying to regroup. John didn't hear as many weapons clashing now. In fact, what he saw and heard were men running.

The Jaffa were running away.

The four men just stared, not heeding the calls of their own heralds, watching what looked like a retreat. Finally, Dixon spoke for all of them.

"What just happened?"

* * *

  
His ears were ringing. Nicholas shook himself, trying to clear his head. Some invisible force had struck him, knocking him onto his back in the mud. For a moment, he just laid there, stunned, staring up at the stars visible through the thin clouds.

Then he realized that for several breaths nobody had been attempting to sever his head from his body.

Groaning, he sat up and stared about blankly. Dead bodies of both Jaffa and Caldoran warriors lay about in the dirt, but before him, Nicholas watched in amazement as groups of Jaffa withdrew from the fighting. Although pockets of battling men remained, the Goa'uld heralds were calling out a signal, and the Jaffa were retreating.

He wasn't entirely clear on what was going on. Using his sword as a crutch in a way Lord Mitchell would surely have tanned his hide for, Nicholas pulled himself to his feet and staggered towards the strange hole in the earth. Pieces of Jaffa bodies were strewn about the concave bowl that Nicholas was certain had not been there before. He dimly remembered a bright flash in the pre-dawn light and a painfully loud sound. Mud had rained down on them as if falling from the heavens.

Around him, other men of the Sheppard militia were watching in disbelief as the Jaffa fled back into their camp. A knot of men began to charge after the Jaffa, but they were called back by a captain who bellowed that no signal to attack had been given. The Jaffa might simply be setting a trap. All of them cast a wary eye towards the silhouettes of the enemy, now some distance away and difficult to see through the hazy light.

Other sounds reached his ears, now that the clanging of metal had faded. Cries of men wounded and dying in the mud, Caldorans and Jaffa both.

Some of the infantry, still in the throes of rage, began to seek out the injured Jaffa and hasten their deaths. But the sound of the injured brought Nicholas' thoughts into clear focus.  
Lord Mitchell.

Many of the Caldorans were milling about confusedly, unsure what to do in the face of this unexpected turn of events. Nicholas began to bark out orders with utter disregard for ranks or titles. The men began to organize themselves, to call for stretchers to bear the wounded off the killing field, and to search the bodies of their comrades to separate the living from the dead.

The chaos of the battle meant Nicholas no longer had any clear idea where exactly Lord Mitchell had fallen. Though it took what felt like a monumental effort, he managed to draw in a deep breath and consider the situation. Running wildly up and down the field would not help. He had to do this logically.

He began to search his way towards the north, away from the great crater that marked the turning point of the conflict, at least for the moment. As he glanced into the faces of the injured men and saw the agony etched into their features, the reality of the price Caldora had already paid began to sink in.

There were many dead already, and more who would not live out the day.

Nicholas kept moving, willing his aching feet to keep him going, and resolutely not allowing himself to consider whether any of the pieces he'd seen in the crater might have belonged to a Caldoran officer.

* * *

  
There was no part of his body that wasn't aching. Stephen didn't think about his age much, but at the moment he felt like a man of twice his years.

After escaping from the Goa'uld trap, he and his men had remained grouped on the edge of the field. The infantry were sorting through the bodies, keeping a wary eye on the horizon, while the cavalry and mounted soldiers reformed a battle line in case the Jaffa reappeared. Stretchers raced to and fro, ferrying the wounded men to the physicians.

They waited. The sun rose, and the heat began to climb. Stephen wanted nothing more than to get out of his armor and wash the mud, blood and sweat from his itching skin.

Finally the king summoned the commanders. Stephen rode back to the camp, Lord David and Lord John not far behind him. He dismounted with difficulty; some blow at some point in the night had dented his armor so that it was digging into his back sharply. He limped with the others to where King Henry stood on a slight rise, looking out over the field. Maybourne and a few others were with him.

"Majesty?" David inquired.

The king's face was difficult to read, or possibly Stephen was just tired. King Henry held out a spyglass to David. "See for yourself."

John, Stephen and Malek of the Tok'ra and the Sodan commander watched. David raised the glass and looked towards the far side of the field. In the west, storm clouds were gathering in the sky, and the heat obscured the horizon. His whole body went rigid and Stephen wondered tiredly what fresh misery was being prepared by their foe.

David whipped around and stared at the king in shock.

John was restless and agitated, though he did address David and not the king. "Well? What did you see?"

King Henry answered for him. "The Goa'uld have broken camp. The Jaffa are marching westward."

A stunned silence greeted this announcement. Stephen couldn't quite bring himself to believe it. Even Haikon, the Sodan commander, gaped at the news.

Henry looked to the west, where the invaders were walking away from a battle that by all rights they should have won. "They appear to be leaving."

* * *

  
The discussion that ensued as each of them took a turn watching the Goa'uld marching off into the west brought many questions with no answers. John could not fathom why their enemy, after all these weeks and all the effort spent, would simply pull up and leave. Some of the lords proposed that it was some sort of trap, and though the idea seemed to be given little actual credence, John could feel the other men were just as nervous as he was. It seemed far too much to ask that this war had come to so abrupt an end.

The king ordered a large force to maintain the watch for the day, including a portion of the cavalry. The rest of the army was to rest and tend to the injured and the dead until they could all be certain that the Goa'uld were really and truly gone.

John did not think he would believe it until every last Jaffa was across the Mearali.

The king dismissed them, and John swung up onto Silvanus' back one more time, patting the animal affectionately. The horse deserved a good long rest.

During the last portion of the conference with Landry, John had grown more and more anxious to return to the battlefield. He wanted to check the status of his own men, know what had befallen them during the night. Most importantly, he needed to see Cameron for himself. His cousin was not a commander, so John had reminded himself repeatedly when Cameron didn't appear at the king's summons. It was right that he stay with the men in the field for the morning. But now, as the sun was climbing to its zenith, John wanted to be certain that his cousin had made it through the battle in one piece.

He was hailed repeatedly by the soldiers as he neared the muddy field. He spotted the worn banner with the crest of Sheppard and threaded his way through the throngs of men and horses, looking about worriedly. The militia of Sheppard were clustered together, exchanging news of the battle. They sprang to their feet when he approached and he waved them off.

"My lord, it is good to see you," an older man with short gray hair said with a rusty smile.

"I am relieved to see so many of you as well, sir. But my cousin? Have you seen Lord Mitchell?"

There was a momentary pause that answered John's question even before the men could slowly admit none of them had seen Cameron that morning.

It didn't mean anything, John told himself insistently. The field and the camp were all chaos still. Cameron would be busy now.

The soldiers spread out through the crowds with alacrity, in search of news of Lord Mitchell. John heard from one younger man that Master Nicholas was on the southern end of the valley. He was relieved Nicholas had survived. John had grown somewhat fond of the young squire over the preceding weeks. And Nicholas would know where Cameron was.

John hastened through the muggy midday heat, forcing himself to ignore the growing stench of the bodies still lying in the sunlight, and the beginnings of fear twisting within his heart.


	3. The Mire (3/4)

Nicholas was barely holding back his panic as he trudged away from the battlefield and towards the hastily erected tents that were being used by the doctors to treat the wounded. It was entirely possible that someone had collected Lord Mitchell from the field and brought him to a doctor while Nicholas had still been looking, or even back during the fighting.

But no one had seen him. Not since before dawn.

He wasn't among the dead, Nicholas kept reminding himself. Lord Mitchell was not on the battlefield any longer. Of course, his mind pointed out relentlessly, it was possible the body had been removed already as well.

He shook his head, wishing to push off the thought.

"Nicholas?"

He stumbled to a halt and turned. Lord John was approaching him at a run. Though Nicholas was relieved the marquis was alive and whole, the look on the other man's face made his stomach sink. It was expectant and worried at the same time.

"I'm glad to see you, Nicholas," Lord John said, drawing up alongside him and putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're not hurt?"

"No, my lord."

There was a momentary pause and Lord John bit down on his lip. He guessed the man already suspected Nicholas could give him no good news.

"Nicholas, my cousin. Have you seen him?"

His voice shook. "He fell."

The hand on his shoulder clenched, digging into the bruises already there. "What?"

"He was struck by a Jaffa and fell from his horse." Nicholas had to wet his lips, barely able to continue. "I lost track of him in the battle."

Lord John closed his eyes for a moment, and despite the fading sunshine overhead, Nicholas shivered. Lord John's face had gone frighteningly pale even with the heat and the sweat pouring down his neck. In the weeks since Lord John had returned to Caldora, Nicholas had learned that the marquis was even worse at concealing his emotions than Lord Mitchell. Lord John had no other family left in the world than his master, and the fear etched into the older man's face in that moment was palpable.

Lord John released his shoulder, visibly drawing himself together. "You have checked over the field?" he asked needlessly.

"Yes, my lord. It is possible someone brought him to the doctors without my knowing it."

He nodded, already moving. "Then we shall check there next."

Nicholas followed hurriedly.

* * *

Stephen dumped a bowl of water over his head, swiping at the muck on his upper body with a cloth. Now that his armor was gone, he could see dark bruises marking much of his torso. His ribs hurt on his left side, and his right leg ached from where the armor had cut into his leg. Blood was still seeping down his calf. Still, he had faced worse than this.

Someone called him outside. He dragged a clean tunic over his head and went out. The wind nearly tore the tent flap from his hand. Dark clouds were scudding across the sky, swallowing up the sun. Out on the plains flashes of lightning were already visible to the west. At the least the breeze was cooling, and they would have fresh water.

Lord David was astride his horse, and after just one look at the man's grim expression, Stephen simply asked, "Who?"

"Lord Mitchell," David said.

Stephen cursed inwardly. He had no great love for either of the lords of Sheppard, but neither did he wish either of them to fall at the hands of the damned Goa'uld.

David added, "The king wishes someone to check with the Sodan and Tok'ra and be sure they have proper aid with their wounded."

Stephen had men of his own with the doctors that he wished to check on. "I will see the Sodan. Their tents are not far from my own men."

David nodded and said he would check with the Tok'ra and rode off. Stephen began to make his way through the camp as the storm drew nearer, limping somewhat from his injured leg.

* * *

John exited the last of the physician's tents and paused, struggling to control himself. There was no sign of Cameron in the tents or lying about with the other injured men in the grass. He was not out on the field, nor was he in the camp.

His cousin had achieved the impossible. He had vanished into thin air.

For a moment John wondered if the Goa'uld had taken Cameron with them. But what on earth could be their purpose for doing such a thing? There were other and more valuable hostages on the field the night before.

John thought of Lord Ba'al, of their brief and unfinished skirmish in the middle of the battle, and his stomach turned over at the thought of Cameron in that vile bastard's clutches.

Nicholas was standing beside him, also looking to the west, into the teeth of the approaching storm. "Nicholas, you are certain Cameron was not on the battlefield?" he asked for the fourth or fifth time.

"No, my lord," Nicholas repeated, sounding the slightest bit snappish. John could hardly blame him. He was silent for a moment, and then his voice dropped noticeably. "However, it is possible his body– he was removed from the field before I began to search."

John's hands clenched as fear ran through him like a cold blade. But there was only one thing to do. Silently he marched off towards the place where the Caldoran dead were being gathered, Nicholas following faithfully in his wake.

* * *

Men were hustling about securing tents and supplies against the approaching storm as Stephen crossed the camp, while the horses pranced and reared nervously. The combination of battle weariness and the tension of one of the large summer storms was driving the animals, and some of the men, slightly wild.

Stephen surveyed his own men in one of the tents. Many of his knights had been wounded badly in the fighting. Some, he knew, had fallen on the field. Their bodies were being collected either for burial or to return home. He saw at least two men who'd lost limbs, and others with great wounds and soaked bandages waiting for the physicians to get to them. He did what he could for them, even if it was just fetching water. Rank be damned. They were good men who had fought bravely.

When he stepped outside again it was much darker, and the thunder of the storm was closer. He threaded across a small space and approached the Sodan somewhat warily. He had not had much interaction with them, save with Lord Haikon, who was their leader, and another man who was head of the Sodan cavalry. What he did know was they were proud and aloof and not much for making friends with anyone, even their allies. Of course, more than one of the Caldoran lords had complained openly and loudly about the prospect of yielding land to the Sodan warriors as payment for their aid, and if the positions were reversed, Stephen was not sure he would not behave the same way as the Sodan.

Haikon was speaking with one of his men when Stephen approached. "My lord, I come to bring King Henry's thanks, and to see that you lack for no aid in dealing with your wounded."

Haikon nodded, a little stiffly. "Lord Stephen. Your king is most kind. We are coping with our injured well enough."

Stephen didn't miss the slight flash of superiority in the other man's response, and had he not been so exhausted, he might have bristled over it. At the moment, he had one or two dozen other things on his mind.

Haikon went into the doctor's tent and Stephen followed silently, sure he was meant to witness the speed and skill of the Sodan healers - not to mention the hardiness of the warriors - for himself. As he observed, his eye caught on a figure lying near the edge of the tent. Something about it struck him as wrong. The man seemed too short for the Sodan.

Stephen limped down the length of the tent, shock rapidly spreading through him, until he could clearly see the man's face. He stood staring for a moment, and then whirled around and hastened back outside. He grabbed the first man he recognized, one of Lord David's men, a man named Siler. "Find Lord John of Sheppard and bring him here immediately!"

* * *

John was very nearly sick as he looked over the line of corpses lying in the grass. The dead soldiers had been brought together away from the battlefield and the small streams in the area until their bodies could be granted a decent burial.

They were so young. Not all of them, but John looked into faces that seemed barely past boyhood and recoiled. Too many, and too young.

And for what? So the Goa'uld could flee back to their own lands on a whim? What had been the point of all this, then?

His only comfort, and it was a thin one, was that Cameron was not among the dead.

He was also not among the living, unless he had become invisible.

The thought of Cameron taken hostage by Ba'al came back and made John want to retch again.

Nicholas was looking at him worriedly, waiting for John to say or do something. But he was at a loss. They had looked everywhere. He didn't know what else they could do, so he began to trudge back towards the camp.

Slowly he became aware that someone was shouting. It was difficult to hear over the wind and the thunder. He looked about and saw a tall, thin man running across the field, directly towards them.

He hated himself for it, but John's legs froze. Suddenly he could not move. He was peripherally aware of Nicholas standing beside him, just as immobile, waiting.

The stranger approached, yelling and pointing over his shoulder. "My lord! It's Lord Mitchell! They've found him! He’s in the healers' tents of the Sodan!"

John drew in a single breath. His paralysis broke and he ran like the devil, Nicholas right behind.

* * *

The noises of the battle were growing louder. Flashes of light burst through his eyelids and the echo of hooves and something else he couldn't place filled his ears. An especially loud sound rattled everything and Cameron bolted upright and then moaned as his head swam.

Hands seized his shoulders, but he twisted to the side, feeling his stomach rebel. Someone shoved a basin before him and he heaved into it, emptying his stomach thoroughly. When it was over, a cup appeared before him and he rinsed his mouth clean before leaning back.

He blinked in surprise when he saw John next to him. His cousin looked like hell, his face pale and drawn, dark circles under his eyes, his hair sopping wet. Cameron looked around, confused. He was not out in the field as he expected, but in a tent. The sounds of combat that had woken him were actually, now that he could focus, from a storm that seemed to be raging outside. John was on his right, sitting on the edge of the pallet he was resting on. Nicholas hovered to his left.

"What happened?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes. His head was throbbing.

"What's the last thing you remember?" John asked.

He frowned. He'd been in the middle of the fighting. It had been dark. "The Sodan riders came. Then one of the Jaffa..." he trailed off, his mind struggling to focus.

Nicholas shifted anxiously. "You fell, my lord. You were struck by a flail and lost your seat."

Cameron winced, half-expecting John to tease him for falling from his horse, but John's eyes were haunted. "If Jolan had not pulled you to his horse, you would have been trampled."

"Jolan?" Cameron asked.

"He brought you to safety before returning to the fighting. The Sodan doctors were not sure who you were, but they treated your injuries. We thought–" John stopped, biting his lip and swallowing visibly. Cameron was startled by how distraught his cousin looked. "We couldn't find you."

Distantly Cameron realized that John and Nicholas must have been thoroughly frightened when they could not locate him, but the throbbing pain in his head was making it difficult to focus. "What of the battle?"

"It is over. The Goa'uld fled."

"What?" he yelled and then groaned as his head gave a vicious stab of pain.

Someone approached and spoke with John. Cameron couldn't pry his eyes open enough to see. Then John's hand wrapped around his forearm. "You must rest now, cousin. I will tell you everything after you've gotten some sleep."

He wanted to protest, demand John explain how in hell they had managed to drive the Goa'uld away, not to mention what exactly his injuries were, but a fog was stealing over his senses already and Cameron drifted into peaceful oblivion before he could form the words. The last thing he was aware of before sleep took him was the warm pressure of John's hand on his arm.

* * *

A steady rain had set in by the evening, but Henry was undeterred from touring the tents where the injured men were sheltering. The sheer shock of the Goa'uld retreat had stifled some of the grief at the damage done to Caldora in this fight, but seeing the youngsters swathed in bandages reminded him of how much they had still lost. The country had survived, but there had been a price.

The Asgard kindly sent their four physicians to help with tending to the wounded. Master Thor had pulled the king aside to point out that the heat and the rain presented a new danger, that of disease from the corpses of the fallen. Thor suggested the men be buried swiftly, and though Henry knew some of men would protest, wanting to take their comrades' bodies home, he assured the tiny priest he would see to it.

Lord Haikon and some of the Sodan volunteered to organize the burying of the dead Jaffa. Henry intended to ask Stephen to manage the arrangements for the Caldoran dead, but he found his highest ranking nobleman still seeing to his own men, with a bloodstain spreading on his trousers from an untended wound to his leg. The duke was eventually compelled by the king to submit to an examination by the Asgard, and Henry delegated the unpleasant task of the burials to Lord David.

Henry's last stop for the night was in a secluded corner of the Sodan tents, where Lord Mitchell lay asleep. His cousin dozed at his side, arms folded across his chest. Lord John had clearly not stopped to clean up since the end of the battle. He roused himself at the king's approach and belatedly stood, weaving slightly from tiredness. Henry led John to the edge of the tent to avoid disturbing the injured man.

"How does young Lord Mitchell fare?"

John scrubbed a hand across his face. "He is resting for now. The Sodan healers believe he will recover, but his stomach is still hurting him. Though not as much as his head."

Henry offered a wry smile. "It's been my experience that nothing is quite so hard as the head of one of the lords of Sheppard."

John grimaced a bit, but held his tongue, at least on that score. Instead he asked, "Has there been any news of the Goa'uld?"

"Lord Maybourne's scouts report that they are still heading west, though the mud and flooding from the storm have slowed their progress. There is no sign of them turning back. But I won't know peace until every last one of them has crossed the borders and left the country entirely."

"It is the most unaccountable thing that they should simply walk away."

"Indeed," Henry concurred. "I imagine once the shock wears off, there will be only one question on everyone's lips," he added sourly.

John nodded. "Why."

It was a mystery they were not to solve that night, if ever. Henry put a hand on John's shoulder. "You should go clean yourself up, John. Eat something and rest. The Sodan will take care of Lord Mitchell."

John yawned, as though on cue. "Master Nicholas should be returning shortly. I sent him to bathe and eat first."

Having heard the story of Lord Mitchell's disappearance and discovery, it didn't surprise Henry that John did not want his cousin left alone. He knew better than to argue with such an impulse. "We will speak more tomorrow," he said, turning to head to his own tents. All of them had been awake for two days if not longer and he was looking forward to finally getting a little peaceful sleep.

* * *

For the next two days, the Caldorans kept up the watch to the west, and the whole camp waited for news that the Goa'uld were turning back to annihilate them or begin some new plan of attack. It never came.

John spent much of his time with his cousin, who was moved back to their private tent once the Sodan and Asgard deemed him able to go. He still slept a great deal, but when he was awake, he seemed rather haunted by his close brush with death. The war had aged him, turned him from boy to manhood, just as the Ori war had done to John, though that experience had left far deeper scars on John's mind and soul. He did not want that outcome for Cameron. Not wishing his cousin to brood too much, John stayed close and he and Nicholas did their best to amuse Cameron as he convalesced.

Eventually, though, Cameron told John that if he didn't go elsewhere for the evening, one of them was going to run mad. John decided to join in on the evening meeting in the king's tent. He was not surprised by the people he found there or by what they were discussing.

The Tok'ra were waiting for some of their wounded to recover sufficiently to cross the mountains again before they decamped. Malek was seated alongside his unlikely ally, Haikon of the Sodan. His people were still awaiting a decision from King Henry regarding their compensation. Caldwell was there, as were Dixon and Maybourne. The king himself looked as though he was holding off a headache by force of will.

John entered and was beckoned into a seat. Caldwell was talking. "It just doesn't make any sense. I know we've been saying this for days, but I cannot fathom why they simply ran."

So far no one was disclosing what exactly the Asgard had used to frighten off the Goa'uld, but John was somewhat dubious, as were others, that the mysterious weapon had been the sole reason for their departure. "There is something we do not know," John concurred. "Much as it pains me, I must agree with the duke."

There was some light chuckling from Dixon, and even the two foreigners smiled at the remark. "I thank you for your confidence," Caldwell said with a wry smile.

John nodded in mock salute.

Malek cleared his throat quietly. "Lord John, you may remember what I asked you upon my arrival here," he began.

John frowned for a moment, thinking back. "About Sarah Gardner?"

Malek nodded, and at the puzzled looks of the others in the room, he explained, "Six months ago I was in the territory of Lord Osiris. I was shocked to discover that his wife was Atalanian by birth. After some investigation I learned that she was not there by choice. She was kidnapped not long after King Edmund's untimely death, and Atalan was in no position to pursue the kidnappers of even a noblewoman."

"What has this to do with us, sir?" Haikon asked.

"I helped the lady to escape," Malek replied, "after Osiris turned up dead in his bedchamber."

John had never heard that detail, and the rest of the room was as startled to hear that as he was. "Lord Osiris is dead?" Landry said. "And we have not heard of it before now?"

"Osiris and Anubis were the two lords leading the push to invade your country, Majesty," Malek said. "Yet neither of them came to war. Osiris is dead. I doubt Anubis had a hand in it, but I believe he may have taken advantage of the timing."

John's mind was racing over the events of the last few months, but not as fast as Maybourne. "Ba'al did not attend the negotiations until nearly the last moment," he mused. "And when he arrived, it was clear he had been traveling long and hard."

"Yes," said Caldwell. "Is it possible he had been in Goa'uld territory? To investigate?"

"Why would it matter so much that Osiris is dead?" Dixon asked.

"Because Anubis must be keeping this secret," Haikon answered. "Otherwise we would have heard of this. Anubis pushed the others to go to war, to take their troops to another country unprovoked, but he himself stayed home. Now one of his allies is dead, and he has told no one."

"It's a grab for power," the king finished. "Distract your rivals with the promise of new, fertile lands and a people to enslave, and while they are gone, take their lands for your own with no opposition. When they return, their forces are so depleted as to make regaining them impossible."

"Wait," John interjected. He could barely believe where this was leading. "Are we speculating that the Goa'uld _staged_ this? That Ba'al discovered this conspiracy, but instead of ending the conflict here and returning to save their own territories, they decided to fight out one more battle? On what pretense?"

"To save face," Caldwell said darkly. "They cannot have it reported that the immortal lords of the Goa'uld turned and fled from anything, save perhaps the magic of the Asgard."

Silence fell, and disgust was all that John could register. It was unconscionable that the Goa'uld could have stayed in Caldora to maintain an illusion, sacrificing the lives of the Caldorans, not to mention hundreds of their own Jaffa. It was nothing compared to the losses Caldora had suffered at the hands of the Ori, but they could not afford to lose any.

"Well," the king said, rising and bringing all the others to their feet, "I doubt we will ever know for certain, but we have received reports from the west. They are leaving. For whatever reason, the war is over, and we are still standing. Now, it is time to rebuild."


	4. The Mire (4/4)

If there was a benefit to his slow recovery, it was that Cameron was spared attending the meetings of the lords of Caldora and the political wrangling going on in the aftermath of the battle. Cameron was more than happy to leave that to his cousin for now, as the mere thought made his head hurt.

Three days after the end of the battle and the war, he was mostly recovered, save for when he got up or lay down. If he did either too swiftly, his head would spin and his stomach would rebel. He also seemed to have regressed to childhood enough that he needed a nap in the afternoons, though partly that was because of the heat building during the day. But after so many weeks of constant worry and tension, it was a bit of a relief to be able to simply exist for a few days.

The press of reality, he was sure, would return soon enough.

Jolan came by each day to speak to him. Cameron had offered his thanks repeatedly, but the quiet, proud Sodan warrior waved them off. Cameron contented himself with reminding his cousin that the Sodan had saved his life. Cameron knew that the biggest conflict within Caldora now was likely to be the issue of where the Sodan would settle. John would play a role in that decision, and Cameron wanted their allies treated fairly and with respect.

Others stopped by to speak to him, including Lord David and Lord Stephen, and most of Cameron's own men. And Nicholas rarely left the tent except on John or Cameron's orders. There was a gravity hovering about the young squire that Cameron could not fail to notice. He felt it in himself.

The day was drawing to a close as Nicholas helped him gain his feet and dress himself for the walk to the edge of the camp. Cameron winced as he pulled on a clean tunic. His abdomen was quite the collection of colors from his injuries, and it was still painfully sore, a fact he remembered any time he twisted one way or another. He grinned at the younger man suddenly. "Nicholas, do you remember what happened just before we heard the news of the invasion?"

His squire stared up at him blankly. "My lord?"

"We were playing scald with the children in the village?" Cameron prompted him.

Nicholas grew sheepish. "I did not realize you had looked away and threw the ball at you."

"You struck me square in the stomach," Cameron chuckled, then frowned as the movement strained his bruises. "I rather preferred that pain to this one."

"I doubt you will be able to convince the girls to take it easy on you, when we get back," Nicholas joked.

"I do not think Valencia knows the meaning of the words," he agreed.

It seemed strange to think of that day now. The idea of standing idly in the sunshine playing a game with the children felt like something from another life. And the eagerness he had once felt for adventure seemed like the foolish dream of a boy who did not know what dangers lurked in the world. He knew better now the price that often came with heroics.

John appeared in the entrance to the tent, and with his cousin and Nicholas flanking him in case he grew tired, Cameron walked to the newly dug cemetery to witness the cost first-hand.

* * *

Stephen listened to the Asgard priest with half an ear, watching the torch light flickering in the dusk as the Caldoran dead were buried in a field well away from the creek. Many good men had been lost, including some of his own. He did not want to dwell on the possibility that their deaths had been nothing more than show for the sake of the accursed Goa'uld and their pride. He focused instead on the fact that the Caldorans had fought bravely and honorably, whatever their enemies' motives had been.

The truth of it had not fully sunk in yet, that the invasion was ended and the Goa'uld were swiftly departing Caldora for home. It would take some time before any of them really believed the war was over, but there were already signs of politics beginning to emerge amid the numb shock following the fighting.

There was some restlessness in the ranks over burying all the dead here instead of bringing them home, but the lords had all agreed that the last thing the country needed right now was a plague brought about by decaying corpses. The only difficulty was that the Sodan had flatly refused to bury their own dead yet. It had not been said openly, at least not in Stephen's hearing, but this was a clear reminder by Haikon of the price promised to the Sodan for their aid. Within a few more days at most, arguing about where to settle the Sodan would begin in earnest. Already there was some squabbling in the ranks of lords within the camp, though not usually in the hearing of their determined allies.

Stephen shifted his weight off his injured leg as he recalled his conversation with Henry just before the battle. He definitely did not envy the man his position any more. The king would wrangle the assembly and select the lands to be yielded to the Sodan and then have to endure the complaints for years afterwards. Stephen would merely go home.

He had not had time to think much of home these several weeks, and not being a man given to indulging in sentiment, it had not occurred to him to be homesick. Now, though, after all these days in the oppressive heat and damp of Dixon, the prospect of the cooler, dryer air of the valleys in Icaria was tantalizing indeed.

The priest began a prayer, and Stephen bowed his head. A few more days, perhaps a week or two, and his part in this business would be at an end.

* * *

Much of the camp's supplies had been eaten up by the battle and tending to the wounded in the immediate aftermath. Promised relief from the capital had not yet arrived, and a few days after the bizarre retreat of the Goa'uld, John was already finding himself repeatedly questioned about two subjects: when more supplies were coming, and when they could start for home. The second question was less frequent, but the tension that had hung over them all for these many weeks was slowly beginning to drain away. Even facing rations of food and medical supplies, the Caldorans were regaining their spirits. Around the small campfires, men were passing bottles and talking with more happiness and energy than they had in months.

Now that the task of burying the dead was behind them, John noted an increase of restlessness in the militia of his own province. He could almost see the men's minds turning from the business of war to the tasks they had set aside when the invasion occurred. There were crops and herds in need of tending, families to be reunited and in the west where the Gou'ald had been, homes to be rebuilt.

After Cameron fell asleep that evening, John wandered out behind the tent they shared and flung himself down on the grass, staring up at the night sky. For the first time since his father's funeral, really, he felt the weight of his new responsibilities. The more mundane aspects of assuming the mantle of Marquis of Sheppard had fallen by the wayside in the urgency of fighting off the Goa'uld, but the war was over now.

He would need to tour the province to assess the damages, ensure Madrona recovered from the influx of refugees. He would also need to go to Cheyenne, the capital city, which rested near the center of Sheppard, near the confluence of two great rivers. He had not seen Cheyenne for many years, but it had been his boyhood home and he longed to see how it had changed and grown even in his father's absence.

His people would be turning to him as they attempted to resettle their lives. The invaders might have destroyed crops or resources and Sheppard might need the aid of other parts of Caldora to survive the winter. There was also the possibility of some of the province being yielded to the Sodan, and the headaches such an action by the king would bring. When Cameron was sufficiently recovered, John thought his cousin could help with that matter, given his friendship with the Sodan.

But staring up at the summer stars, John acknowledged the desire that had been lurking on the edges of his consciousness since the night after the battle ended and he knew Cameron to be safe. He was free to come and go from Caldora as he pleased now that his name had been restored. Short of a direct summons from the king, he was master of his own fate once more.

He could go back.

His heart sped up even as he considered the many tasks awaiting him here in Caldora. He would not soon be able to get free of his obligations, not with everything that had happened. But in a few months, perhaps once fall had arrived and the people were able to take up their lives again, he could delegate his responsibilities to Cameron and go north.

So much had changed since he had left Elizabeth standing in the palace stables. She likely already knew that his father was dead and that he now bore the title of Marquis. News of the recent battle and its outcome no doubt was fast approaching the court in Atlantis if not already there. The queen was scrupulous in attending to events in other countries, so it wasn't just vanity that made him certain Elizabeth would be following news from Caldora closely.

John was more interested in knowing if _her_ situation had changed. The protracted visit to Iolan was long over by now. Had Elizabeth returned to Atalan with a betrothal ring on her finger? Was she even now planning for her wedding to Prince Radek? He wanted to think that he would have heard if the Queen of Atalan had chosen a husband, but being far away from any populated area meant that it was still possible that no one had passed on the news far enough to reach the army here in Dixon. Such gossip wouldn't be vital to the tides of war.

Even if she was still free, one heated and admittedly overwhelming kiss, bestowed in a moment of great emotion, did not assure him of anything. He couldn't presume to know Elizabeth's heart. But his father's words, almost the last words he had spoken to his son, came back to John, _"A marquis may court a queen."_

He knew it could not be soon, and that all manner of obstacles were in his path, but for the first time since he had turned and walked away from Elizabeth in the stables, John allowed himself to hope.

* * *

"Caravan approaching from the east!"

Henry looked up from the table where the map of Caldora was being argued over by several of the nobles. Supplies had been sent for from Redwater just after the battle had ended, but they had been waiting nearly four days since for a response. And in the back of his mind, Henry felt a tiny prick of fear. The Goa'uld had fled west, but could this be some kind of trick? He pushed his way through the crowd around him, many of the lords following him hastily. "Who are they?" he asked, attempting to keep his anxiety from his voice.

One of the guards was holding up a spyglass to his eye. "I see our colors, Majesty," he replied calmly. "Wagons and pack horses. It is the supply caravan from Redwater." Relieved, Henry signaled for the guards to let them in.

Once the caravan reached the camp and its leaders rode in, Henry was startled to see a woman among them. He was even more surprised to realize that the lady riding the grey palfrey was his daughter. Henry stepped forward and assisted her off of the animal. She murmured her thanks, and then she turned to the men to start giving them orders. Henry chuckled beside her, and she blushed. "My apologies, Father," she said. "Perhaps I have become more accustomed to giving orders than I ought."

"It is no matter, Carolyn," he replied. "But perhaps we should leave this to others."

She concurred, and he guided her to his tent. Once they were inside and out of the hearing of those they had left behind, he said, "I do not wish to sound ungrateful for the supplies, for they are sorely needed, but I am surprised to see you."

Carolyn sat down on the small chair. "I know. We'd begun gathering some of these supplies even before word arrived of our people's victory," she explained, smiling faintly. "Hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst in case things should go badly and we had to prepare for a siege of Redwater. It took time, though, to gather what was needed here. My decision to join them in their journey was very last minute."

Henry nodded slowly. "Would you care for some water?" At her nod, he poured her a cup from the pitcher that had been sitting in his tent. As Carolyn sipped from it, he asked, "If you are here, then who has been left in charge at Redwater?" He stared at her, alarmed. "Surely you did not leave full management to Davis and Barrett? They -"

Carolyn laughed. "Not at all, Father. I am not that cruel." After a moment, though, she glanced away her expression becoming serious. "My mother is ruling in your absence."

Henry quickly put the pitcher down before it could slip through his suddenly nerveless fingers. He'd barely seen Aurelia since their son's death, and now she was in Redwater? Acting as ruling queen? Had the whole world turned upside down in his absence as well?

"Father?" Carolyn prompted, nervousness evident in her voice. "Is something the matter?"

"No, child," he replied. "I cannot imagine how you managed it, but I am not displeased."

She smiled then, the way she had as a child but rarely as an adult. "I am glad."

Henry didn't ask further questions about his wife, but even as they discussed the events in Redwater, Aurelia was on his mind. Carolyn seemed to sense this. "It was Mother's idea that I come," she said casually. "She thought perhaps the men might benefit from a visit. I think perhaps she was overestimating my ability to boost morale, but I wasn't going to argue with her."

"Well, you've already lifted my spirits," Henry replied. "Your mother is a wise woman."

"I have learned that firsthand," she said. "Would it be possible for me to visit some of the wounded now?"

"Of course," he said, rising. Carolyn stood too. "I would only ask that you speak to the physicians first. Some of the men were wounded quite severely, and I imagine some of them are not up to visits from their princess."

He said it with a teasing voice, though in truth he worried that the sight of men bloodied and cleaved to pieces would be too upsetting for her. Carolyn blushed, though she looked annoyed. "I will join you for dinner, Father."

"I await that eagerly, daughter," he replied.

She left him wondering. He had asked her to stay in Redwater as his regent because he believed she would be equal to the task. Still, if she had succeeded in drawing Aurelia back into public life, even for a little while, then perhaps Henry had underestimated Carolyn severely.

* * *

Carolyn was just stepping out of one of the medical tents into the hot evening air when Lord John passed by. It was the first time she'd seen him since he'd left Redwater with her father weeks ago. He was still in black, mourning his father, but the tension that had been all too evident in him before was gone, for the most part. That was true of many of the men, even those lying in the physicians' tents. There was a strong sense of relief that the enemy had fled and the war was over.

John bowed to her slightly upon seeing her; Carolyn nodded in return. But instead of letting him go his way, she walked toward him. "My lord," she said, "I am glad to see you safe."

"And I you." At her puzzled look, he added, "I presume that managing the court was neither easy nor pleasant."

"No," she admitted, smiling slightly, "but it was not as bad as I imagined."

An awkward pause ensued, and Carolyn cast about for something to say. She was saved, though, when the marquis cleared his throat. "I was fetching something for my cousin to eat," he explained.

"How is Lord Mitchell?"

John hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other. "He was wounded early in the battle," he said.

"Indeed?" Carolyn said. John started walking slowly and she followed with him. "How does he fare now?"

"He did not wake again until the battle was well over," John replied, his expression turning dark. "From what he remembers, he was struck in the stomach with a flail and thrown off his horse. Had it not been for one of the Sodan pulling him onto his horse, I fear he would not have survived."

Carolyn nodded slowly. "My lord," she began, and then wasn't sure how to continue.

"Princess?" he prompted, gently.

"I have just been visiting the wounded," she explained. "Could I... Would it be all right if I called upon your cousin?"

He smiled a little, and Carolyn wasn't sure if it was gratitude for her request or amusement at her awkwardness. "I see no reason why you should not, Highness."

He took her hand then, bowed, and kissed it. Carolyn had to fight to keep the fluttering in her stomach from being too apparent.

John directed her to the tent he was sharing with his cousin, and they went their separate ways. Carolyn found the tent quickly enough. Coming around it, she saw that the flaps were tied back, probably in an attempt to cool things off, so she ducked inside. "Lord Mitchell," she began, and then she saw him.

To her surprise, he was standing up in the middle of the tent. From John's description, she'd imagined he was still abed. He was also clad in nothing but his breeches, something that made her back up toward the tent flaps even though his upper body was half-covered with bandages.

Cameron turned, saw her, and let out a startled "Princess!" before his foot connected with something and he fell backwards. Not thinking, Carolyn rushed forward, as though she could stop him from hitting his head against a wooden trunk behind him. He groaned as he lifted his head off the lid, and she dropped to her knees next to him.

"Lord Mitchell?" she said, helping him shift away from the trunk. "How are you feeling?"

"Tingly," he replied automatically, then winced. "Let's pretend I didn't just say that. But I suppose you've gotten your revenge for how I startled you when we met."

Carolyn smiled despite her concern for him and her awkwardness over his state of undress. He started to sit up but froze and closed his eyes for a moment as if dizzy. She planted a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down, afraid he would pass out. His skin was warm to the touch. "My lord, you need not to exert yourself."

He gave her a wry smile but obeyed. "Yes, Doctor," he told her.

She just smiled as she reached for a pillow to put beneath his head.

Once he was settled again, he thanked her for her help, and then looked at her curiously. "What brings you here?" he asked.

"I heard you were wounded."

He looked away from her, and she could have sworn he was blushing. For her part, Carolyn looked down at her hands, trying to keep her eyes off his bare chest and the hard curves of muscle on his arms.

"It's kind of you to visit me," he finally said. "I had not even heard you were in camp."

"I only just arrived," she replied. Then she frowned a little and met his eyes again. "Lord Mitchell, I was sorry to hear of your uncle's death. I understand you were very close."

"Thank you," he murmured. He seemed surprised that she had brought it up. "And yes, we were. My father was killed in the Ori war, and when my mother heard the news, she decided to return to her brother's family. She passed away some years later, and by then it was almost certain that none of my cousins were coming back from the war either. In many ways, Uncle Geoffrey was like a father to me."

Carolyn, being a little familiar with Cameron's cousin, was somewhat surprised to hear him speak so openly. But perhaps the Ori war had hardened John in a way that his younger cousin had not experienced.

She bit the inside of her lip for a moment before speaking. "He and my father were once friends," she said. "I know it did not end well between them, but... Father always spoke of him as a great man, that he should have been king instead."

"He was a good man," Cameron replied. "And so is your father, Princess."

Not thinking about it, Carolyn touched his hand, and he clasped hers firmly. "I must thank you, my lord," she told him.

"For what?" he asked, bemused.

"For your service to the crown." She had spoken those words to the other men she had visited today, and would continue to say them many times more in the near future, she was sure. She was amused to see Cameron fidget much as many of the other knights had when confronted with her gratitude.

Carolyn pulled her hand away from his and got up to her feet. Cameron pushed up on his elbows, despite the way she glared at him for it. "I am to dine with my father tonight," she explained. "And Lord John told me he was bringing you supper, and I am loathe to interrupt that."

Cameron groaned and laid back down on the floor. "I just hope he's not cooking."

Carolyn laughed and bade him good night.

* * *

The morning after his daughter's unexpected arrival, Henry was still unable to get his mind around her news. That his estranged wife had returned to the capital and had taken over stewardship of the government, even temporarily, was not a thing to be grasped easily. Too much had passed between them for him to know what to think about this development.

Until he could return himself and speak with her, though, there was not much he could do towards answering the many questions spinning in his head. He focused on the matters at hand, including the distribution of supplies, the preparations of the Tok'ra to depart, and most importantly, the disposition of the Sodan's payment.

At mid-morning, though, a messenger arrived in the camp bearing a letter which drove all other concerns from his mind. More than half an hour later, when Stephen and John appeared before him, he had yet to sift through the many implications. "Majesty?" Stephen prompted him.

Henry looked at the paper still in his hands. "I have received an invitation to a meeting." The other two men looked puzzled and apprehensive, but they said nothing. Henry focused his gaze on John. "From the Queen of Atalan."

It was evident from the shock on the man's face that he'd had no idea of this plan. Stephen's jaw dropped for a moment as they both digested the news.

Henry stood up. "The young queen writes that, understanding the war is at an end, when I find myself in a position to think beyond the immediate concerns of the country's safety, she desires to meet with me face to face, to re-establish ties between our two nations."

Stephen finally found his tongue. "Is this to be a state visit, Majesty?"

Henry shook his head. "She did not specify. It might be better for it not to be so public, especially on the heels of surrendering a portion of the country to foreigners."

It was plain that Stephen was having many thoughts on this subject and holding himself in check from speaking them too quickly. He had been vocal in his contempt of Atalan and its queen in the past, though Henry suspected part of that attitude was just Stephen's desire to goad John. The actions of Atalan had little effect on Stephen or his lands directly, but not a man among the nobility in the camp was unaware that the fastest way to infuriate the Marquis of Sheppard was to belittle their northern neighbor and its sovereign.

"You have something to say, my lord?" Henry prompted him.

Stephen shot a glance at John, who glared somewhat, but unexpectedly, Stephen hedged. "Domestically it may not be a popular idea, Majesty, but I am not certain the country is in a position to alienate anyone at the moment."

Considering that Atalan had been funneling food and supplies to Caldora for weeks and the interference of her queen and one of her nobles was the reason both the Tok'ra and Asgard were in the camp, Henry thought Stephen was rather willfully ignoring the more pressing reasons for accepting the offer. However, coming from Stephen, the admission was tantamount to a complete reversal.

Seeing that John was either unable or unwilling to speak up on his own, Henry turned to the younger man. "Lord John, did you have any notion that the queen was planning this?"

John blinked slowly. "Not precisely, Majesty. I once heard Queen Elizabeth mention a vague desire to investigate reopening relations with Caldora, but there was nothing specific about such a plan that I was aware of."

Henry had gathered as much from Lord Davis and the queen's own letters.

He could think of no legitimate reason to refuse the offer, and a number of reasons to accept. It would have to be considered, of course, and planned carefully. And perhaps given some time, Henry could pry a bit more information from John about this girl queen and her intentions.

* * *

John stood near the edge of the camp, looking north at the mountains made hazy by the afternoon heat. The war was over, and now Elizabeth was requesting a meeting with the king. John's heart pounded in his chest. If he could secure a place in the king's retinue, he would be able to see her again, far sooner than he could have dared to hope. Given his history in Atalan, it seemed impossible that King Henry would not include John in the party. He could be with her again in a matter of days.

The thought left him slightly dizzy.

"My lord?"

Torn from his thoughts, John turned to see one of the guards. "Yes?" he asked warily. If Cameron had overexerted himself again, John was going to be very displeased.

"His Majesty wished that you be notified that one of our scouts is approaching the camp from the west."

John nodded. Glancing northward one final time, he turned away and strode toward the central tent. As he approached, he saw several of the other nobles gathering around King Henry and Princess Carolyn just outside. Nodding to the other men and bowing briefly to the king and his daughter, he inquired, "Do we have news?"

"We should," Dixon answered. He nodded toward the edge of camp, where there was a clear view of the lone horse and rider racing towards them. "He's certainly moving fast enough," Dixon commented.

"Perhaps he brings news that the Goa’uld have passed over the border," the princess inserted with a hopeful expression. John noted briefly that some of the other nobles such as Caldwell and Maybourne looked at her in askance for joining them, but the group waited expectantly for the man to reach them.

The rider eventually entered the camp. He leapt off his horse, nearly shoving the reins of his horse into the hands of the nearest man, who happened to be one of the king's guards and hurried towards the group waiting before the king's colors.

The mud-splattered scout could barely bow to them, nearly collapsing at their feet from exhaustion. "Majesty," he said, breathing heavily. "The Goa'uld have attacked Cheyenne. The city is burning!"  



End file.
